Shouldn't
by Daine
Summary: An Elvenbane fiction. Ellords do not feel. The ones who love them do...sometimes too much.


A/N: Thank you, Lady Feylene, for writing something about the Elvenbane first.

Disclaimer: I don't own 'em.

Shouldn't

El-lords do not feel.

That is the first lesson any slave learns here; they must learn it in order to survive. They must become as hard and ruthless as the elves themselves. 

But that's never quite possible, is it? Slaves are human. They cannot stop themselves from feeling any more than they can stop breathing. Even as emotions such as love and pity are eradicated from their minds, hurt and anger always remains. Feeling pain is dangerous; anger will get you killed.

Everyone knows that.

If any one of them could see me here, if they knew what I am – one of the few that haven't been conditioned into soulless husks, that is – they would not believe their eyes. At the most, they would consider me insane.

And if they _were_ one of the shells that passes for humanity in the palace, I wouldn't live long enough for anyone to question my sanity any further – because as bad as humans have it in this world, halfbloods are decidedly worse off.

Officially, there are no halfbloods left anymore. They were all killed at birth, and now it's supposed to be impossible for any more to be born. Of course it would be impossible, when the concubines take anti-fertility drugs and no elf lord would ever willingly father a human child. 

I know differently. I know they're wrong every time an elf takes even passing notice of me. I know it when my tainted blood seems to burn through my veins as I wonder if this time, the illusion Valyn has given me will fail. If this is the time I will be exposed and killed.

That's right – the illusion Valyn gave me. Valyn, heir to el-lord Dyran, pureblood elf. The slave collar around my neck, rather than block my magic, produces an illusion of full humanity to keep me safe. Valyn protects me, as I am supposed to protect him. 

I know halfbloods exist, for I am one of them. And I know what else this "everyone" is wrong about. Elves can feel.

Oh, not all of them. The older ones especially have beaten their emotions down for so long that they are no longer capable of caring for anything but power. The younger ones still feel some things, but literally cannot express it. Elven uprising forbids it. After being mage-lashed for expressing any feelings – whether happiness, sadness, fear, or anything in between – young elves learn early to perfect a blank, unreadable mask.  

Valyn has not cried since the age of two. He rarely laughs, barely even smiles. I made it my mission once to make him smile. Now, when he feels comfortable enough around me grin occasionally, I still regard every half-smile with a sense of triumph. 

He really does have such a beautiful smile…

When we talk, I can always tell when something affects him emotionally. His face goes blank, his expression completely impassive. It's slightly unnerving to hear his musical voice turn so flat and dead. It is times like these that I want to reach inside his head and rip that wall down; I want to tear his father's lessons from his memories. I want him to look at me and be able to say what he hides from me every time his eyes go blank.

At night I sleep in his room. It is unconventional, obviously, but by this point everyone is so used to Valyn's "Shadow" that no one comments. My bed rests against the wall, farthest from the window. 

Sometimes Valyn calls to me in the night. I run to his bed and watch as he fights off nightmares. He doesn't thrash or strike out in his sleep, but sometimes a light sweat comes to his brow and I hear the despair in his voice as he whispers my name. He has never told me of his dreams, but I expected no less. 

For even in his nightmares, the cold mask descends over his features and blocks me out. 

Sometimes I let myself wonder, if maybe his dreams are not all nightmares…if sometimes, when he calls my name in the night and there is no hint of the terror that plagues so many of his dreams, that he wants of me what I have desired from him for longer than I can remember. 

Such thoughts are useless, mere fantasy. They are the product of my mother's human blood, these emotions that I am too weak to control. 

It shouldn't hurt. It shouldn't hurt me, not when I've lived among elves my entire life. I know the kind of conditioning they go through to turn out the way they do. It shouldn't hurt me when his mask falls into place and closes off the part of him that can still feel. 

It shouldn't hurt when his footsteps falter near my place in the corner, or when his hand reaches out to touch my cheek when he thinks I'm asleep.

It shouldn't hurt when I realize that the words I want to hear can never pass his lips.

It shouldn't hurt.

But it does.

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